In Krumlov

by NAA

We held onto the last hours of the night and lingered at the pub long after other patrons had left. Even after tying scarves and buttoning our coats, we stayed, talking with our waitress so long a round of slivovitz had passed our lips before we thought again of leaving. Our waitress laughed with empathy at our reluctance to depart and poured a second round, this time Becherovka. The sweet spice tasted like sparkling gold, like Christmas in my mouth. “No, no,” she smiled as we reached for our wallets, “the drinks are my treat. Merry Christmas.”

Brewing Copper{image by me}

 

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